


What am I?

by NevaRYadL



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: ... sort of, Body Horror, Character Study, Dehumanization, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Panic Attacks, just take it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:54:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25494940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NevaRYadL/pseuds/NevaRYadL
Summary: You're not human, not really.But there was a time... that you were.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	What am I?

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: Mentioned character deaths, dehumanization, angst, poor handling of trauma, body horror, mentioned panic attacks, sort of character study thing I guess??
> 
> idk I just wanted to ramble about Rev

You’re human… but your deeds and actions are not. Your employers say to your face that you’re human, but they don’t think you are either. But that’s okay. You’re human.

Sure, you kill a few people. A lot of people. If you didn’t get a paycheck, you’d probably be listed as one of the worst serial killers in all of the known worlds. But you get a paycheck. You get a fancier name. ‘Corporate Assassin’. Corporate Assassin for Hammond Industries, real name… forgotten. Along with a lot of other stuff when you were a piece of shit skin suit. Hell, ‘corporate assassin’ was not even an official thing, probably just what they told you so that you did not feel bad breaking necks of people. Not that you care. Money is money and what’s a few blue collars to you? Getting paid was reason enough to kill, though it certainly lost you no sleep that most of the people you killed were capitalistic pigs that earned it.

You? You’re a problem solver. No kill is outside of your grasp or skill level. You get shit done and that’s that on that. But… there lies the problem. When you get shit done, when you fulfill a certain unwanted role… people don’t ever want you to stop. Especially when someone is as good of a problem solver as you are. You're a problem solver, and there are, unfortunetly, ways to keep you going well beyond the human expiration date.

So they ‘fix’ that. 

You don’t remember when though. Just this huge blank spot in your memory from when you had skin to when you had… something else.

Turns out that ‘blank spot’ in your memory was almost three hundred and twenty years of you being a walking, talking killing tool for their needs. The Syndicate. Somewhere along the line, you had died and they had brought you back as a simulacrum, probably against your will based on how readily they made you a mindless drone to do their dirty work. Not that they cared, soulless bastards, because you did their dirty work, like a good little machine, without morals or limits or back talking or aging or dying like those filthy skinsuits do. Because you stopped being human, so they stopped bothering to even hide the fact that they never saw you as one. They had so easily stripped that all away from you. You are a tool, nothing more, and for three hundred years you acted like how they wanted their precious tool to act.

What breaks you is your reflection. You see it and see your metallic face. Your glowing optics. You just killed some skinsuits named Marcos and Alanza Andrade. You took an elevator to get away, hoping to look like any other simulacrum walking around, but they stop it and then crash it to kill you. You woke up and your programming is already trying to piece your body back together. There's something sticking out of your neck, you numbly grab it and as you turn to assess your surroundings, you see your face in a shattered piece of once glossy rose gold tinted mirror.

At first you see your face. And then something causes your mind control programming to hiccup for half a second and you see another face. Petrified metal, glowing yellow optics. You see a flesh face for a moment, the program running like a mad dog to catch up, but your mind is already breaking free and you see your face. White and red, looking like the front part of a skill, red tear marks and a hollowed in nose like a noseless corpse. You have metal lips for some reason, but that thought only lasts a second as your eyes look at the metal of your torso, the inhumanly thinness of your midsection, the fucked up appearance of your hips down to your impossible to be human legs. Nothing about you is human.

The panic kicks in a few seconds later, poor kid.

Your mind trips on something to focus on to bring itself out of the panic attack its worked itself into. Your tongue? Where was your tongue. Your brain tries to fire off signals to move it, only to come up confused when it can't find it, nor can you feel it. When you move your bony thin metal fingers up to your petrified metal face, you find that mouth that they gave your faceplates is just carved there, it does not open, not matter how hard you try to rip your own mouth open. It strikes you then, that you do not have a mouth then, if it cannot open.

You want to scream, you want to feel the rush in as your lungs take in all that air to use and then expel a heinous sound so violently that you feel it. Instead your vocalizer does it, letting out a heinous sound that no human could ever make, expelling it so violently that the rose gold tinted glass still remaining shatters around you, landing in sparkling destroyed pieces around you. You fumble back, your foot lands in shattered glass and it crunches under foot. Your confused brain thinks that something cut you, you pull your foot up and see only glittering glass dust clinging to the bottom of your foot. You jab your metal fingers against your metal foot, hoping that this is all a bad dream, a really bad nightmare, a night terror unlike any other, and that there is some flesh somewhere on you. You only scrape some of the glass dust off your foot in your frantic search.

The cops come. Your still panicked, you run. You learn quickly what your new body can do. You robotic strength managed to rip open the ruined elevator doors, you run faster the the cars coming after you, you dig your fingers in and scale up the side of a building like a spider, and you fucking run like the wind, Bullseye. You run and run and run and run and run until your confused brain thinks that you need oxygen, only to skid to a stop between some rotted warehouses and find that you... feel nothing. Your lungs are not on fire like they should have, you do not feel the lack of oxygen, you do not feel the heated rush of overused muscles singing out their exhaustion. You feel...

Nothing.

You find a little corner in a rotted warehouse to just... process everything that has happened to you.

You killed someone, someones. Your cybernetic brain pulls up their files readily. Marcos and Alanza Andrade. Thieves. They stole an important artifact from your previous contractor and you had been ordered with a few keystrokes to kill them. You had.

_Their daughter watched._

There is a moment where your old morals pop up. You only ever killed if there was reason enough and money enough to do so. You were a killer, sure, a professional hitman, but you have fucking morals. Had morals. Sure, the two were thieves, but a public execution in front of a fucking kid?!

What... what else have you done...

It takes a few years to get your bearings. You finds out pieces by hearsay and by the people that come to 'take you back' before you kill them to save your own skin-- metal. You have been this... thing... for over three hundred years. For three hundred years you have been a tool of death and destruction for the Syndicate. They took away everything from your. Your face, your life, fuck, you did not even remember how you had 'died' so you cannot even say if they killed you to make you like this. 

You are not human, and that kills you. You should hurt from just the onslaught of shit that hits you all at once. But the fact that you truely are a thing, an tool and in fact not fucking human feels like it should hurt the worst. But it does not.

Because you are not human.

And instead of falling into despair... you fall into rage instead.

They took away your humanity? Your life? Your face? Well, Hammond Industries and the Syndicate was about to be killed by their precious tool. You would take away their lives in repayment for your own and keeping you alive for three hundred years. Starting with the bastards that had you changed.

But... they are all dead. Almost two hundred years had passed. You had outlived the people that had taken away your humanity... how ironic. And the very company that they had worked for was more or less gone as well. How pathetic...

Until it was not.

While taking up contracts to kill people, because what else can a literal killing machine do with his time, you hear about Hammond Robotics returning to the Outlands. For the Apex games. That fire that you swore had only left hollowness and sour soot on the inside of your robotic soul came burning back and a poisonous hatred overtake you. If you cannot kill those that had taken it all away from you, you would kill those that were trying to gain everything that those bastards had made.

Once you had needed a reason to kill and the money to pay your bills. A pathetic and hollow form of revenge and your own broiling over rage do it for you now.

So you kill. You try and learn a bit about yourself in the process as well, but mostly you kill Hammod employees.

You learn that they're getting involved in the Apex games and follow through with that as well. Might as well kill a few flashy, annoying skinsuit assholes along the way, ey? Because your revenge is not aimed at one person, but the poison in your heart has warped your view and made it so everyone person is painted in target red. What's a skinsuit to you?

You're not human and this? This is the Outlands, baby.


End file.
